Package Deal (5 page)

Not nearly as glad as he was to see she had one. Her warm smile left him relaxed compared to the jolt of paranoia her remark had triggered. Maybe McKinley wasn’t solid ice after all.

She propped one elbow on the table, and rested her chin in one hand. “So, tell me about real estate.”

“I’ve kept my hand in real estate more for a hobby than anything else.” He picked up the conversation where they left off. “I enjoy hunting for hidden treasures. There are still some great deals out there. So, if I can help, let me know. You’ve got my number.”

He glanced up at Kelly, who remained silent. Was she considering his offer? At this point, he tried to convince himself he didn’t care one way or another whether she accepted. Her fluctuating temperature scared him a little.

“I need to get started at the newspaper,” she said, “and I might be working on Saturday. Can you help me find a rental on Sunday?”

Steve set his fork down. “Sure, but for the record, I don’t actually handle any real estate, but I have access to the listings. More than you’d find online. A good friend of mine has his own agency. If you know how much you want to spend, we can check out some properties.”

“Okay, Steve McCarthy. She gave her head a conciliatory nod, and then flashed him a warm smile. I
could
use some help.”

He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.

Chapter Five

F
or better or worse, Kelly had given in. She’d given Steve McCarthy her phone number. Early Sunday morning, she climbed out of bed and headed straight to the kitchen. She brewed a pot of fresh coffee, and when it finished perking—filling the cottage with its irresistible aroma—she poured herself a mug and stepped outside.

The balmy air, freshened by a gentle breeze blowing inland, drew Kelly toward the dunes. She crossed the dunes and gazed out over the Atlantic Ocean. The Pacific was an old friend, but this ocean was new. Different. Deep down, she knew the Atlantic would be her friend, too, and she relished the thought of nurturing their friendship.

Slick and silvery in the morning light, the sea sloshed against Florida’s golden shores, creating small tide pools that spotted the beach. Early risers shuffled along the water’s edge, stooping to pick up seashells washed up during the night.

Her senses sated, Kelly returned to the porch and sank into a wicker settee beneath the picture window. Happy for the first time in years, those old ghosts that had tormented her now seemed far away. The clean ocean air swelled her lungs, and the sound of white caps splashing onto the sand sang through her, breathing life into her, renewing her spirit after a past of painful memories. Had she found a home at last?

She drew her long legs up beside her on the sofa and drank her coffee, her mind wandering free of pain, brushing over the past and speculating on the future.

Somehow, in the next two weeks, she would put in fifty hours at the paper, find a home, and fly back to San Francisco. Once there, she had to pack, supervise a moving crew, drive three thousand miles back with a six-year-old child and a pet rat, and be on the job the following Monday morning—moved in and ready to write.

Just thinking about it frazzled her! She would have been crazy to turn down McCarthy’s help. Besides, she still had some guilt about the way she’d treated him at Murphy’s. Her conscience compelled her to prove to him she wasn’t a shrew, even if she’d acted like one.

Unfortunately, she admitted her past caused her to act irrationally at times. Part of her sought the love and acceptance she’d never had, while the other part wanted to prove she didn’t need it. Maintaining some kind of balance wasn’t easy. The first year after the divorce, she had dated, but fear of being hurt again and distrust interfered in all her relationships. Within a few months she had given up dating altogether, too battle weary to give anything of herself to anyone but her daughter. Her feelings hadn’t changed, and she hoped Steve McCarthy wouldn’t try to complicate things.

She sat for a long time, lost in thought, before the phone rang, startling her. Jumping up, she dashed into the cottage, dragging sand across the worn linoleum floor. Catching her breath, she lifted the receiver on the third ring.

“Hi, Kelly. Steve McCarthy. Are we still on for the house hunt this morning?”
His voice sounded rich and low, and she imagined him lying in bed. The mental picture connecting him with crumpled sheets sent a rush of pleasure along her belly. She’d repressed such feelings for so long that a wave of anxiety followed, washing away the warm fuzzy sensation.

Back to your cob-webby corners.
She
banished all untrusting thoughts to the back of her mind. After all, a house hunt wasn’t a lifetime commitment. It wasn’t even a date.

“I’ve been counting on it, Steve.” She was less convinced than she sounded. “Are you sure you can spare the time?” She almost hoped he’d say no. Daytona had plenty of real estate agents she could call. She knew, because she’d left messages for a few. None had returned her call. This weekend would be her last chance to accomplish some serious house hunting. Resigned, she admitted Steve McCarthy was her best bet.

“I’d just be fishing,” he said. “The fish will be here when I get back. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Kelly hung up, determined to change Steve McCarthy’s first impression of her, while keeping her attraction to him at bay. She hurried around the small cottage, tidying up so he wouldn’t think she was a slob as well as a shrew. She bathed and dressed and pulled her hair into a ponytail, letting it tumble down the back of her head in a fountain of black waves.

The travel and first couple days on the job had exhausted her. During lunch hour, she’d opened bank accounts, studied real estate maps and scoured the
News Journal
to get a better idea of the type of articles her boss expected from her. Her days had started early and ended well after midnight. Bone tired, she hoped the weariness didn’t show on her face.

In the pressroom, she’d been assigned a desk and a computer to share with another reporter. Sharing was no big deal to Kelly. She had a laptop and often worked at home anyway, preferring the peace and quiet there to the circus-like atmosphere of the pressroom. The newspaper office was canned insanity at its best, with phones ringing, computers beeping, people talking in loud excited voices, reporters rushing in and out day and night, like the old Marx Brothers movies her grandfather used to watch. Concentration was impossible for anyone requiring a tranquil environment for creativity. Still, the
News Journal’s
pressroom seemed almost calm compared to the nerve-racking tempo at the San Francisco’s
Chronicle
. But first impressions weren’t always accurate, and although the pressroom of the
News Journal
seemed quiet by comparison, the schedule of events wasn’t.

Ted Willis, editor in chief and Kelly’s new boss, had assigned her a small story right away. When she returned from San Francisco, her first big assignment called for a road trip to Summer Springs, just north of Crystal River on Florida’s gulf coast, where manatees were swimming in one of the public utility’s discharge canals.

She hadn’t the slightest idea what a manatee was, but she knew enough not to ask. She’d listened while Ted Willis expounded on the value of the rare, endangered animal often called the sea cow. At least now she knew a manatee was an animal. It could have been a vegetable or a ship for all she knew. With a leap of imagination, she’d surmised the manatee might somehow resemble a cow, although she found this hard to imagine, since cows and oceans shared nothing in common. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough to pique her curiosity and give her a starting point. A good reporter didn’t need much more. She would Google
manatee
and do some research. Right now, she needed to get ready for Steve McCarthy.

Chapter Six

S
teve McCarthy had spent most of his life in Daytona and knew just about every landmark in town, so locating The Glades wasn’t a problem for him. When he spotted the sign, he wheeled into the gravel drive that years ago had been palmetto-covered dunes. He drove straight back to the last bungalow on the right, confirmed it was cottage number five, cut the engine and climbed out.

Two teenage girls hurling a Frisbee back and forth on the dune stopped and stared, goggle-eyed at him. Steve grinned and waved. Used to being admired by females, he never took it too seriously, although at thirty-five he appreciated knowing he could still turn a head. Giggling, the girls ran down the path leading to the beach, their teenage laughter echoing on the sea breeze.

Steve crossed the small yard, soft sand filtering through the straps of his sandals. He hoped he wasn’t under dressed for Mt. McKinley—the nickname he’d dubbed Kelly with after her volatile display at Murphy’s. She seemed a little haughty, even a little unstable, and he was afraid she might expect him this morning in full suit and tie instead of white shorts and a casual shirt. If so, he hoped she took disappointment well.

He pulled his sunglasses off and rooted them in his thick hair. Actually, there was a lot about Kelly Pearson he liked—besides her looks, which he admitted he found pleasing. Most women with black hair and blue eyes appeared anemic, but her face was soft, almost innocent, making the stark contrast between hair and eyes more magical than a curse. More than just pretty, he’d detected vitality, a determination to survive, which he didn’t quite understand but respected, and a vulnerability he surmised she wanted no one to see. All combined, Kelly Pearson had touched his masculine instincts.

Despite her obvious attempts to spurn him, Steve had been attracted to her the moment he’d seen her, and he’d sensed her attraction to him as well, at least until she’d turned into an ice mountain and treated him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon. In the past, specifically his post Linda Harper era, he’d made it a rule to avoid woman exhibiting psychotic tendencies. But something about Kelly Pearson drew him in against his better judgment, and he decided to give her a second—no, third—chance, more out of curiosity than concern for her housing situation. Oh well, time was the great revealer of truths, he reminded himself as he neared the cottage door and rapped his fist against it.

***

Kelly jumped at the knock on the door, her nerves rattling with the glass jalousie panels. She’d been ready for five minutes, which was all she’d needed to convince herself this meeting was a mistake, but it was too late now.

She checked herself in the mirror again, knowing Jill Wagner would have a good laugh if she could see how nervous Kelly was about a house hunt with a pseudo-real estate agent. She gave the front room a final check, moving a vase of faded plastic flowers from the kitchen to the closet, and hurried to open the front door.

“Hello, Pearson.” Steve’s McCarthy’s eyes matched the lush encroachment of tropical foliage behind him, his teasing smile inviting.

Her voice caught in her throat, the strongest reaction she’d had toward a man since her divorce, and this unnerved her.

“Hey, Steve.” Her gaze lingered on his face. “I appreciate your helping me out.”

“Not a problem. It’s a beautiful day.”

Kelly’s mind stalled. She shifted her gaze to the tight shirt stretched across Steve’s toned chest. He’d pushed the three-quarter length sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong, tanned lower arms. He’d stuck his sunglasses in his tawny hair.
Almost GQ
. Kelly found that scary.

“Well, are you going to invite me in?” He halted Kelly’s appraisal.

“Sure. Of course,” she stammered and realized the error of her past. No woman, no matter how adamant about staying single, should deny her sexuality for six years. It wasn’t normal. Since stumbling across Steve McCarthy, she showed signs of snapping. Her hormones had gone wild. “I’m ready. Come on in. Want some coffee before we leave?”

“Love some.” He closed the door behind him and glanced around the little beach cottage. “This place isn’t bad.”

Embarrassed about her meager accommodations, Kelly replied, “Not exactly the Hilton, huh?” She was glad she’d hidden the plastic flowers.

“Definitely not the Hilton, but it is authentic Florida.”

“I like it,” she admitted. “Rustic, while homey, and inexpensive, too. I couldn’t see spending ten days in one room and eating out every day.” She poured him a cup of coffee. Sensing his gaze on her, she glanced up.
Emerald green
.
No man should be allowed to have such fabulous eyes.